Asleep At All
by the-speed-reader
Summary: He should've seen the signs; he should seen the way she looked at him.


_Not gonna lie, **writing **this made me want to march down to Marvel studios and force them to make this happen._

* * *

"_I've always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed_." -David Benioff

* * *

His shoulder, having long become numb due to the weight upon it, was now growing more tired by the very moment said weight was settled upon it, yet he did not have the heart to move the never ending, slow pain that held control over him. He did not want to move the weight on his shoulder, all for very different meanings that were spread wildly across his mind; the first, of course, was logic, and it argued that he would very likely end up with a sore shoulder when he woke up tomorrow. The second, however, brought emotions into play, and the scent of green apples that filtered into his noise was very clearly affecting his decisions.

The lightest scent had sent his head into a tizzy, blinking his eyes into a rather half-opened position, lulling him into a brief sleep that tempted him deeply; he was warm all over, partly because of the weight upon him, and partly because her mere presence leaked all helpful and worrisome thoughts from his mind.

And such a presence it was, with full lips, wary eyes, and a bright smile: yes, his rookie, his protégé, his Skye – she was curled up next to him, her head tucked perfectly into his shoulder with the ever ease of a sly puppy, sliding her way up to him in a way that had been completely non-threatening when the team had fist settled down for a movie night, a night of peace after all hell had broken loose.

He should've seen the signs; he should seen the way she looked at him when they were training (though he passed it off, telling himself quite firmly that it was only because it was the six of them in isolation, in a constant confined space save when the Bus landed), the way she sought him out when her nightmares had carried her long past terrified, the way her hands had lingered among his longer than was professionally appropriate – he should've noticed the way his own heart skipped the slightest of seconds when their fingers brushed up against each other, should've noticed the way _he _looked at _her_.

But it was all on him now, because she was curled up beside him, breaths leaving her body in quiet gasps as she slept quite peacefully, and he didn't know what to do.

The rest of the team had retired quite earlier, when the movie was half-way through. Fitz and Simmons had been pressed together tightly on the opposite couch, heads bent together, whispers things of nonsense – their relationship had been one long in the making, one that had developed over the course of years together; their relationship was of two best friends honestly in love with each other (Skye's words, not his, he honestly was not a sap) and it would continue that they would put best friends before lovers. They were gone, holding hands tightly as they left the commons area.

May and Coulson had taken different routes however, with them retreating in opposite directions the moments the credits hit the scene. The older man had passed it off as being tired, a side effect of rather roughing training he had endured earlier that day, but May had made no excuses. The dark featured woman had only left, stepped off the couch opposite to Coulson's, and left the room with every grace and intent of telling people to _leave the hell alone_.

And of course, they listened, because she was still the Calvary.

His thoughts drifted back to how warm he was, how her breath was brushing up against the underside of his jaw every time she took a brush of air. He thought how her hands were intertwined in a way that shouldn't be happening and how her bare feet were perched onto top of his as he stretched his legs out to rest on top of the coffee table.

Every moment they continued to be like this was completely and utterly unprofessional. Yet he couldn't bring himself to move her; he was relaxed, a feeling he hadn't had in weeks, months, ever since Coulson had approached him and offered him a job on a Bus with a handful of other recruits. He shouldn't have taken that job, he scolded himself. If he had never taken this job, he would have never been in this position, hopelessly and unforgettably falling for the young woman in his arms.

(God, he wasn't a sap, he wasn't a sap, he _wasn't_.)

She stirred then, just as he was contemplating whether or not to move her. He froze when her breathing became slightly choppy, and his fingers flew to cup her jaw when her head began to slip. He flinched when her head moved, but she was only moving to get more comfortable, he observed.

And he made her more comfortable, he did; against his better judgment, against the professional voice arguing and screaming at him, having a fight with himself, he drew his other hand from where it was positioned onto of the couch and framed her face with his hands, gently moving her face back to his shoulder. She moved again, yes, but then quickly fell back into the clutches of sleep.

His shoulder was numb again.

* * *

She awoke slowly, comfortably, with her eyes flickering open with every intention of closing them again, but that was just not meant to be; her subconscious was pulled from its slumber, forcing her with every passing center into the waking world. She was warm, she noticed, in a place that was most certainly not her tiny bunk off the kitchen. In fact, it looked a little like the commons area, with her propped up on something that was _breathing_.

Her eyes snapped open and she flinched, holding her breath as not to wake _Grant Ward_, who was holding her waist, pulling her tightly close to him; her head was perched on his shoulder, giving her a pillow that was much more comfortable than the rock-hard one that gathered its residence in her bunk. Their feet were tangled together on the coffee table, hers bare and his covered with a pair of socks she faintly recognized as the ones Fitz had given the agent for Christmas.

She wasn't sure what to do at this point – his grip on her was stronger than she had calculated, as she found when she tried to gently slip away. He was holding her towards him as a child held a teddy bear, and when her head tilted sideways she wondered if she should be offended.

But she wasn't, so, that was that.

He stirred, causing her to freeze while a swear tumbled out of her breath. She squeezed her eyes shut when she caught his eyes flicker open, thoughts flying, _he's gonna kill me, he's gonna kill me, pleasepleaseplease _–

Since her eyes were closed, she didn't catch his amused glance. And she jolted when she felt a pair of lips hover by her ear and a pair of hands move from her waist to her face. "Go back to sleep, Skye," he murmured, being turning his head and pressing a light kiss to her jaw. "Sleep," he whispered, once last time, before turning his head and falling back against the couch, slumber drawing him into its hands like it had her.

Later, she swears that he was asleep when it happened.

He swears he wasn't.

* * *

_I'm getting a lot of feels right now guys, and all of them are SkyeWard. Have absolutely no idea why, no idea how, but my fingers tapping among this keyboard seem to want you guys to read these stories that pop into my head._


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